Sumayya cracks me up sometimes.
A couple of days ago, Anas and his brother in law were visiting. Sumayya has started this new thing where she wears her scarf in front of men/schoolmates, etc. So , she went upstairs to changer her clothes and a while later I see her strolling into the kitchen casually with her shirt, scarf and .... underwear. nothing on her lower half but her underclothes. Ummmmmm......
I freaked out and covered her up. She has no concept of internal 3aybness. So I looked at her and said, 'Sumayya, you have a scarf on , but no pants?'
She actually stopped and thought about that and said, 'Oh, yes.'
Alhamdulillah that made some sense.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Well-Worn Family Treasure
I sat in my halaqa the other day, and had a blast from the past moment. I thumbed through the book we were studying, and couldn't help but be blown away for a few minutes. I was holding in my hand a well-worn family treasure, and I was the lucky one who owned it now, even though I don't think I deserve it. But I was blown away with Allah's mercy on me, that it now lay in my hands.
This book that I read when I was a teenager, growing up. This book that my sisters studied while they sat with my mom in self-imposed family time. This book that my brother wrapped with a brown paper bag and wrote on in his beautiful Arabic writing, with a typo that still designs the cover. That my sister graffitied with her name. That my mom stamped with her side notes, written in her tiny, unclear handwriting. That my father thumbed through endlessly, lovingly.
And I sit here and remember the last time it was given to me. I had moved out to my own place, and left behind a wealth of books in my parents' storage attic, too lazy to bring it down. I went shopping in my father's bookcase, and he sat there and happily gave me book after book, so sure that he was fulfilling me and edging me on to reading more in Arabic. He handed me this book, the book that I loved reading in the past, but had not read in a long while, the book that my mother studied religiously, that my siblings had marked with their own marks. At that moment, my mom put her foot down, "No, I still read that book." And I remember how happy I was when Baba slipped it into my hands and said, 'It's ok, Fatima will read it."
I cried that day when I remembered that memory. For over two years it sat on my shelf, not read or used. How selfish of me. But subhanaAllah, here I am, two years later, finally using it. I love how Allah's plans for the future play out in our past, how we can't see the reason for something, only to be surprised by it slapping us in our faces many years later.
This book that I read when I was a teenager, growing up. This book that my sisters studied while they sat with my mom in self-imposed family time. This book that my brother wrapped with a brown paper bag and wrote on in his beautiful Arabic writing, with a typo that still designs the cover. That my sister graffitied with her name. That my mom stamped with her side notes, written in her tiny, unclear handwriting. That my father thumbed through endlessly, lovingly.
And I sit here and remember the last time it was given to me. I had moved out to my own place, and left behind a wealth of books in my parents' storage attic, too lazy to bring it down. I went shopping in my father's bookcase, and he sat there and happily gave me book after book, so sure that he was fulfilling me and edging me on to reading more in Arabic. He handed me this book, the book that I loved reading in the past, but had not read in a long while, the book that my mother studied religiously, that my siblings had marked with their own marks. At that moment, my mom put her foot down, "No, I still read that book." And I remember how happy I was when Baba slipped it into my hands and said, 'It's ok, Fatima will read it."
I cried that day when I remembered that memory. For over two years it sat on my shelf, not read or used. How selfish of me. But subhanaAllah, here I am, two years later, finally using it. I love how Allah's plans for the future play out in our past, how we can't see the reason for something, only to be surprised by it slapping us in our faces many years later.
Waking Up in the Mornin', Mornin
I was waking up Sumayya for school the other day, and couldn't help but remembering baba and itrahhaming 3leeh. I had a flashback to how he woke us up with a loud smile, a boisterous nature and a happy, off to the right track beginning of the morning day smile. He'd laugh when we grumbled, covered our faces with our blankets or screamed, 'i'm getting up' for the hundredth time. And he'd come back and wake us up again a couple more times, still happy and joking.
Flashback to the present, and here i am with my daughter, growl on my face, thinking of how much I'd rather be in bed, threatening her that if she wakes her sister or brother with her loud noise, i'll be so mad at her. Wow! What a difference! Your legacy still lives on Baba, and I ask Allah to reward you with us for every kick we gave and every smile/laugh you answered us with. I try to wake Sumayya up with no growls now, no scowls, no angry countenance. I haven't yet made it to the stage of being happy and smiley when I'm waking her up, but maybe one day soon I'll get there.
Flashback to the present, and here i am with my daughter, growl on my face, thinking of how much I'd rather be in bed, threatening her that if she wakes her sister or brother with her loud noise, i'll be so mad at her. Wow! What a difference! Your legacy still lives on Baba, and I ask Allah to reward you with us for every kick we gave and every smile/laugh you answered us with. I try to wake Sumayya up with no growls now, no scowls, no angry countenance. I haven't yet made it to the stage of being happy and smiley when I'm waking her up, but maybe one day soon I'll get there.
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